Chapter 19
Alina
The Barrow
The first thing I notice is the sound.
Alaric’s boots.
Back and forth across the same stretch of stone, over and over, until I swear the floor is starting to groove itself around his path.
We’ve commandeered one of the Barrow’s larger common rooms as our waiting headquarters—the one with big arched windows that look out over the terraces and a hearth big enough to roast a dragon in.
Clarisse and a small army of servants have turned it into a war-comfort nest.
They keep bringing us things.
Steaming pots of fyrran and herbal teas.
Platters piled high with roasted meats, flatbreads still warm from the ovens, bowls of bright dipping sauces that smell like fire and herbs.
Crisp vegetables that snap between your teeth, dusted with salt and something tangy.
It would be a feast any other day.
Today, we pick.
We sip.
We push food around plates.
Because none of us are really hungry.
The hours stretch into something rubbery and thin, pulling at my nerves.
Twice now, I’ve felt it under my feet—like the Marches themselves are trying to report in to me.
Distant tremors. A low, mourning hum that curls up my spine like cold smoke.
Stone’s Edge is hurt.
I know it before the messenger stone on the wall flares to life.
I’m sitting at the big table with Jules and Phoebe, pretending to read while mostly staring at the same page, when it happens.
The stone—an oval of dark rock veined with pale light—flickers, then blooms hot.
Alaric stops pacing mid-step.
He slaps his palm over the stone. His face goes hard, eyes distant.
Jules’ hand finds mine under the table.
I hold on.
When the connection clears, he’s shaking.
“Stone’s Edge has fallen,” he grinds out.
The floor hums under my boots in confirmation.
A sick, twisting feeling hits my stomach.
“What do you mean, fallen?” I ask, even though I already know I won’t like the answer.
“The SoulTakers seized the village,” he says. “They took Masielle. Idris himself attacked her mind while wearing another’s skin—ripped what he needed from her. Her knowledge of old Dreamwright paths. Secret routes into the forges and sanctums.”
His voice cracks on the word her, and he slams his fist against the stone.
Blue light snaps and pops, then dies.
“Dagan has called legions to his side,” Alaric continues, quieter now, like he’s forcing himself into commander mode.
“They’re fighting what Idris left behind.
Half the SoulTakers on the ground are… not even fully there.
Puppets.” He spits the last word like it tastes foul. “He’s using our own people as shells.”
My throat goes tight.
I can feel the earth under Stone’s Edge—broken, scorched, still shuddering from the assault. I know Dagan’s down there somewhere, pushing back with everything he has.
Come back to me, Lord of Dirt, I think helplessly. Just—please, come back.
Time turns strange after that.
We snatch sleep where we can. Take turns at the windows. At the messenger stones.
Clarisse and her crew keep the food coming even though half of it goes uneaten.
We wake.
We wait.
We worry.
By the third morning, weariness has sunk deep into my bones. My dreams are a blur of stone and feathers and green-gold eyes.
I wake to chaos.
Not war chaos.
Different chaos.
The kind with raised voices and feet running past my door.
I shove out of bed, drag on the nearest tunic and leggings, and follow the sounds down the corridor, heart pounding in my throat.
The big common room is a whirlwind.
Servants rush in and out with basins of hot water, linens, armfuls of cushions.
The big table’s been shoved aside to clear space.
Alaric is on his knees beside Jules, who’s hunched over, one hand braced on a chair, the other clamped around his wrist.
Her face is pale, jaw clenched, sweat beading along her hairline.
“Hey, hey—what’s going on?” I demand, crossing the room fast.
Jules sucks in a breath and glares at Alaric. “Stop looking like that or I’ll throw something at you,” she gasps.
“She’s in labor,” Delia says from Jules’ other side, voice tight.
The former EMT looks worried—really worried.
“Okay,” I say, trying for calm. “I mean, you’ve seen this before, right?”
Delia nods, then shakes her head in the same motion.
“Plenty of human births,” she answers. “But this? This is more. This kid is half Lord of Air. Heir to a magical throne. I—I don’t know if all the same rules apply.” She huffs out a breath. “Oh my God, that sounds crazy when I say it out loud.”
Jules lets out a short, strained laugh that turns into a groan.
“Welcome to our new life.”
“Alright,” I say, slipping into practical mode because if I think too hard about Dagan and SoulTakers and Stone’s Edge right now, I’ll fall apart. “We need help. Clarisse?”
She appears like I summoned her—brown hair braided tight, apron already dusted with flour and herbs.
The woman is everywhere at once.
“Yes, milady?” she asks, eyes sharp.
“Do we have a doctor? A healer?” I ask.
“Of course.” She pauses, assessing Jules with a quick, experienced glance. “But what you need right now is a midwife. I am qualified.”
Her expression softens into something fierce and soothing all at once. “We shall bring up the birthing chair. It has been standing ready since the Eyrie sent word of the pregnancy.”
Delia’s eyes light up with instant relief. “A birthing chair? Yes. That will help so much.”
“I’ll fetch it,” Clarisse says briskly, already turning to bark orders at nearby servants. “More hot water, clean linens, and someone inform the infirmary that we may need an extra pair of hands.”
“Alaric,” Jules pants, tugging on his sleeve. “Breathe. You’re scaring everyone.”
He looks like he’s about two seconds from shifting into full Dragon and trying to fly her to the moon for safety.
“You are in pain, Myrrin. My heart aches with it. How am I to breathe calmly when—”
“Because I need you to,” she snaps, then softens. “Please, viyen. Be my calm, not my panic.”
He shuts his mouth. Swallows. Nods.
Delia moves to help Jules ease onto a cushioned seat while we wait for the chair.
“Phoebe, can you grab some towels? Extra pillows?” Delia asks.
“On it,” Phoebe says, already sprinting toward the linen carts.
I hover for a second, feeling utterly useless.
The Marches hum under my feet—a low, steady pulse.
Somewhere far away, Dagan is in the thick of battle, and here I am, about to help deliver a half-Dragon baby in a magical fortress that changes hallways when it thinks I look tired.
Wild.
“Alina,” Delia says suddenly, glancing up at me. “You good with charts and tracking? Timing contractions, pulse, that sort of thing?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say. “Spreadsheets are kind of my love language.”
“Great.” She thrusts a slate and chalk into my hands. “You’re on timing duty. And observations. Anything weird, you mark it.”
“Define weird,” I mutter, but I move to Jules’ other side.
Her hand shoots out and grabs mine, squeezing hard.
“You don’t have to—” I start.
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” she grits out as another contraction hits. “You leave, I hunt you.”
“Okay, staying,” I say quickly. “Definitely staying.”
She squeezes her eyes shut and breathes through it, Delia counting softly under her breath.
When it passes, Jules sags back, chest heaving.
“Sorry,” she mutters. “I’m… not usually murdery.”
“Girl, you’re in labor,” I say. “You get a free pass.”
Her lips twitch. “What part of Jersey you from?”
“Hudson County. Born and raised.”
“Figures,” she says. “All the best trouble is.”
The room hums with movement and murmurs, the air thick with steam and the sharp scent of herbs.
Somewhere down the corridor, I hear the scrape and thump of the birthing chair being hauled up from the depths.
I glance toward the massive doors leading out of the room.
No sign of our men, the other Lords, yet.
No message stone flaring to life with news from Stone’s Edge.
My bond with Dagan thrums low and steady—strained, but still there.
Still alive.
“Hey,” Delia says quietly, noticing where I’m looking. “You feel him?”
“Yeah,” I answer, throat tight. “Like… a pressure. Low-grade quake that won’t settle.”
“Good,” she says firmly. “That means he’s still out there fighting. And that means we do our job here.”
“Our job,” I echo.
Helping bring new life into a world that’s literally fighting for its own.
I square my shoulders, lift the chalk, and kneel a little closer to Jules, ready to count the next contraction, ready to do what I can while the man I’m dangerously close to loving fights to keep all of this from falling apart.
“Alright,” I tell Jules, forcing a smile. “Let’s meet this baby and give the SoulTakers one more reason to regret ever touching our worlds.”
She grins through a grimace. “Now that’s the kind of fairytale ending I can get behind.”